


An Old English Murder

by Lindenharp



Series: Faerie Tales [3]
Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Case Fic, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-12 20:26:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28641444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lindenharp/pseuds/Lindenharp
Summary: James and Robbie have returned to Oxford. Now they have to figure out how to fit their new relationship into their day-to-day lives, while also trying to figure out who murdered an elderly professor.Rated Teen for language and canon-typical violence (murder victim found at beginning; nothing graphic).
Relationships: James Hathaway/Robert Lewis
Series: Faerie Tales [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1413487
Comments: 59
Kudos: 60





	1. Cwalu (murder, violent death)

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks are owed for help with this story. Sasha1600 has been a fantastic beta, gadfly, and cheerleader. Small_Hobbit once again stepped up as Brit-picker extraordinaire.
> 
> I chose to give my chapters titles in Old English, but knowing that translations based on online dictionaries can be horribly incorrect, I turned to the OldEnglish forum on Reddit. The kind and learned Wylfcen looked over my chapter titles and provided replacements for the ones that were incorrect. Any errors in OE words and phrases in the body of the story are my responsibility. (Please feel free to assume that such "errors" can be attributed to differences in the Fae dialect of OE.)

Dr Edwin Hulbert of St Anselm's College is sat behind his oak desk, eyes closed and head drooping on his chest. A mane of silver hair frames his craggy, dignified face. He might be dozing, James Hathaway thinks, except for the puddle of blood on the floor and the rigor mortis in the body. And the hilt of a miniature sword protruding from his chest.

"Cause of death is stabbing with that letter opener?" Lewis aims his not-quite-a-question at Dr Hobson.

"Good to know that you've still got your eyesight," she retorts.

Lewis is unruffled. "Morse had a case once―before your time―the victim was apparently stabbed with a kitchen knife. The killer was trying to make the victim's wife look guilty. He'd used his own knife for the attack, then replaced it with the carving knife from the roast."

"In this case, Robbie, the apparent weapon is the actual one. The letter opener, as you said."

"Excalibur, to be precise," James says. He points at the stone-shaped holder with a slit on top. It's fallen over, and he turns it upright, revealing a plaque reading 'Camelot'. 

"It's odd he should have this," Lewis says half to himself.

Dr Hobson carefully removes 'Excalibur' from the corpse, and slips it into an evidence bag. "Why odd? He was a professor of English history, wasn't he?" 

"Anglo-Saxon Studies," James corrects. "And according to legend, King Arthur died in battle against the Saxons."

Hobson gestures to the SOCOs, indicating that they can bag and remove the victim's body. "Perhaps Hulbert thought of it as a victory trophy and you're looking for a vengeful Arthurian scholar," she says lightly.

Lewis snorts. "Anything's possible in Oxford."

"I leave that to you and the good sergeant. I'll let you know about the PM results, but at this point, I'm not expecting any surprises. No fingerprints on Excalibur, by the way. It's been wiped clean."

"Ta, Laura."

With the corpse removed, they're free to examine the desk more closely. James puts on gloves to explore the waste bin beneath it. There's not much in it, and none of it interesting: some sweet wrappers, a cylindrical lightbulb from the old-fashioned wall sconce, a pencil stub, crumpled tissues, and week-old receipt from a local cafe. That done, he turns his attention to the surface of the desk. Much of it is the usual academic clutter. He flips through student essays, lecture outlines, and department meeting minutes. One folder contains detailed notes for an article on 'Alliteration in the Poetry of Caedmon and Cynewulf' and a publication contract for the same. Another is stuffed with takeaway menus. Between the desk calendar and the computer is a well-thumbed paperback copy of _Beowulf_. James flips it open, and is unsurprised to see that it's in the original Old English with no modern translation. "You've read it, of course," he says to Lewis.

His DI glances at the book in his hand. "I have not."

Now James _is_ surprised. Lewis learned Old English as a child in the Fae kingdom of Underhill. How can it be that he's never read the most famous piece of literature in that language? He's tempted to ask, but there are still SOCOs and uniforms in the corridor. He's the only person in Oxford who knows Lewis's secret. Revealing that Lewis reads—and speaks!—Old English won't lead anyone to guess that he is also half-Fae, especially since most people don't believe that the Fae are real. But it would lead to some hard-to-answer questions.

He covers his reaction by peering at the calendar. "He had a tutorial yesterday morning. Lunch with 'J.M.' and a lecture at 3:00."

"Laura said the time of death was probably between 4:00 and 5:00."

"He had an appointment with someone at 4:30." James squints at the calendar. Hulbert's scribble isn't the easiest to decipher. "Ellen..." He makes a guess at the pronunciation. "Sigh-dan? C-Y-D-A-N."

Lewis leans over the desk. "Blimey. His handwriting is bad enough to be a doctor's. See if there's something on his computer, would you?"

James moves the mouse, and frowns at what he sees on the screen. "Password protected. It doesn't mean there's anything of interest on it."

"We'll see what Gurdip can do with it. Now, let's talk to the department secretary and the porter about J.M. and this Ellen whatsername."

No one knows Ellen Cydan. J.M. proves to be Dr Joshua Marcus, a lecturer in Aramaic and Syriac languages at the Oriental Institute. He seems genuinely shocked to hear of Hulbert's death, and responds to the news with a short burst of Hebrew that James assumes is a prayer. Marcus describes his relationship with Hulbert as 'friendly colleagues'. "We lunched together every week or so," he says in a South African drawl. He's never heard of Ellen Cydan, and doesn't know of anyone who might wish Hulbert harm. He has an alibi for the time of the murder, having been in a faculty meeting. "I wish I could be of help," he says, and James believes him.

"What was he like?" Lewis asks.

Marcus purses his lips. "My first reaction is to say 'outgoing', but that's not quite right. Hulbert was interested in other people, and rather reserved about his own personal life. When he entertained, it was always in a restaurant, not his home. Though that may have been because he was a bachelor. My wife Chana says that older men living alone are like bears in their dens."

Lewis smiles. "She sounds like a very perceptive woman."

"She is. It serves her well in her career—she's a clinical psychologist."

They spend a few more minutes asking Dr Marcus about Hulbert's conversation at lunch, but it's clear he has nothing useful to add.

"Let's take another look at his office," Lewis says.

* * *

Hulbert's office, though now minus a computer, a chair, and the body of its former occupant, still looks incredibly cluttered. He'd been here for over twenty years, and the office reflects a long and moderately successful career. There are some framed certificates from Oxford and from some academic societies that James has never heard of. He starts to sift through the pile of student papers, many of which bear emphatic comments in Hulbert's scrawl. 'Nominative, not genitive' appears more than once in red ink, as does 'You ought to know this by now!' The next paper bears the note: 'Poetry should stride across the page like a warrior across a battlefield, but your verse staggers like a drunken swineherd.'

James shows it to Lewis, who chuckles. "Hate to say it, but I agree. This is pretty poor stuff. Maybe we're looking for an angry student."

"That wouldn't narrow down the list of potential suspects by much." And really, Hulbert's rebukes are fairly mild compared to many that James has seen.

"Ellen Cydan..." Lewis muses aloud. "Why does that name sound familiar to me?"

"Someone you met on another case?" James suggests, and receives a shrug in response. Even knowing that wouldn't help much. Lewis has been living and working in Oxford for a very long time. How many people has he interviewed over the years? Hundreds? Thousands?

They spend a fruitless half-hour examining the office. "That's enough for now," Lewis decrees. "We'll take a look at his house after lunch."

Lunch is at a pub en route to Hulbert's house in Jericho. After switching off the car, Lewis doesn't immediately open his door. "James..."

James turns, surprised. In the days since they've returned from their holiday in Northumberland, Lewis has carefully avoided calling him by his first name at work. Since they're keeping their new relationship a secret, it's a way of separating the two parts of their lives. "Yes?"

"I'm sorry, _efning_."

His surprise ratchets up a few more levels. _Efning_ is the Old English word for 'partner' or 'consort'. As used by the Fae, it has connotations of equality. As used by Robbie, it's also an endearment. James raises his brows and waits for the explanation.

"I reckon we'll have to change our plans for the weekend. With this new case..."

James was supposed to spend the weekend at Lewis's house. His lover was going to open a leather satchel of gifts he'd brought back from Underhill. One of them is something—he won't say what—that he wants to give to James as a formal token of their consort-bond.

He says in a carefully light tone, "It's all right, Robbie. Best to wait until we have the time to do it properly. Besides, I have this." He gestures at his chest, where a small wooden pendant in the shape of two Saxon runes is hidden beneath the crisp white shirt. Robbie gave it to him as a temporary token of their bond. It was purchased for a few quid from a woodworker in Rothbury, who carved it from a piece of scrap wood, and it may be the most precious thing that James has ever owned.

And though he won't confess it to Robbie, James is slightly relieved that the gift-giving will be delayed. He doesn't know what gift would be suitable to give to his lover. He thinks momentarily of a song he's been composing for Robbie. It's more-or-less finished, but not to his satisfaction, and James isn't sure that he'll ever have the courage to perform it. Jewelry? Robbie has never seemed especially interested in self-adornment. And what could James possibly offer a man accustomed to the glittering, ancient treasures of the Fae? A nice pair of engraved silver cufflinks and matching tie bar seems laughably inadequate.

* * *

Hulbert's home is a modest brick bungalow with white window-frames and a door to match. Lewis rummages in his coat pocket for the ring of keys that SOCO had found on the victim. It takes him several tries to find the correct one. The door opens directly into the lounge. James's gaze sweeps the room, remembering Chana Marcus's observation about old men and bear dens. There's an oversized leather armchair and matching ottoman, set in front of a Persian rug in faded reds, browns, and blues.

There's a short hallway to the left of the lounge, where James can glimpse a bath and a bedroom. On the other side of the lounge is a closed door. The upper half is inset with two vertical panes of frosted glass which admit sunlight from the room beyond—the kitchen, he assumes. Behind the door he can hear the sounds of movement, followed by a soft whine.

Before he can utter a word of caution, Lewis has opened the door and stepped into the kitchen. A chocolate Labrador Retriever rushes forward to meet him. James tenses, but the dog only wags his tail and sniffs inquiringly at Lewis's outstretched hand. He's slightly grey around the muzzle, and wears a red leather collar with a brass buckle.

"Hello, there. Who's a good boy?" Lewis scratches the dog behind the ears. It wriggles in delight and licks his hand. "We laugh..." Lewis says.

James frowns. "We do?"

"It's the dog's name. W-i-g-l-a-f, pronounced wee-laf."

He feels like ten kinds of fool, but he has to ask. "Did... did the dog tell you that?"

Lewis's mouth twitches. "In a manner of speaking."

 _In for a penny..._ "Did he tell you anything else?"

"Only that he's been very good and hasn't piddled on the floor, so can he please go outside and then have a bowl of Pedigree?"

James stares, gobsmacked, until Lewis finally bursts out laughing. "You muppet! Did you really think I talked to the dog?"

"You talk to the plants in your garden." _And they grow like they're on steroids, just to please you._

"I do," Lewis admits cheerfully. "And if ever you hear me say that they talk back, you can phone the blokes in the white coats to take me away."

"So, you made all that up, just to pull my leg?"

"No. I can tell from what I _don't_ smell that he's been a good, patient boy, and I'm sure he'd like us to fill this empty bowl from that bag of food I see in the corner."

"And his name?"

"Is marked on his collar." Lewis points to some angular shapes carved into the leather.

As James comes closer, he can tell that what he'd taken for geometric decorations are actually runes. "It sounds vaguely familiar."

"Wiglaf was Beowulf's best mate—the one who stayed by his side when he fought the dragon. Good name for a loyal fellow like this one," Lewis says. He escorts the dog to the kitchen door, and lets him run out into the fenced back garden.

"Wait a minute—you said you'd never read Beowulf!"

"I haven't done," Lewis confirms. "It's not meant to be read, it's meant to be listened to."

"Recited, you mean?"

"Aye. And sung, with a harp in the king's hall. There were always songs and tales while the fire burned in the _Cyning-Halla_ of Underhill." Lewis's voice is soft, and his eyes are focused on sights that he alone can see.

 _He chose to come back_ , James reminds himself. _He doesn't belong there, not any longer. He came back to me._ Still, Lewis has spent more years Underhill than in the mortal world, most of it during his magically elongated childhood. _He must miss it sometimes._

Once Wiglaf's needs have been tended, they explore the rest of the house. The bathroom is spotlessly clean, but the towel hanging on the back of the door is frayed at the edges and several of the porcelain tiles are marred by thin cracks. The bedroom, dominated by a walnut four-poster and matching dresser, is curiously devoid of personal items. The door across from the bedroom is closed and locked with a deadbolt mounted several inches above the doorknob. "Something he wanted to keep private?" James suggests.

"A study or library, maybe?" Lewis is sorting through the ring of keys. "If it's a tip like his office at St Anselm's, he might not have trusted his cleaner to keep from tidying his papers and whatnot. I think this is the one..." He inserts a small silver key into the lock, which clicks, and the door swings open. The room beyond is completely dark. The windows must be covered with something like blackout curtains.

Lewis fumbles for a light switch. "Hope we're not going to find Bluebeard's wives in here, or..." As the ceiling fixture floods the room with light, Lewis's voice trails off into silence.

James also finds himself at a loss for words.

"I've got the wrong story," Lewis mutters. "It's not Bluebeard, it's Beowulf—again—and this is the dragon's lair."


	2. Sē Incleofa (The Inner Chamber)

James' first guess was technically correct. The room _is_ a study. The walls to the left and right are lined with bookshelves filled with appropriate volumes for an academic's home library, and a small writing desk is placed in the corner nearest the door. But Lewis's description, though fanciful, is closer to the room's true nature. Directly in front of them is a glass-fronted case, its shelves crowded with treasure. His eyes dart from one object to another: gold coins, silver bracelets, enamelled brooches, bits of armour, and other things he can't identify. His gaze lingers on a short sword with an engraved hilt before moving on to the centerpiece of the collection: a magnificent chalice.

" _Faéted waége dryncfæt déore_ ," Lewis murmurs. Then, recollecting that James is there, he translates, "The golden goblet, the precious drinking-cup."

"Do you suppose it's genuine?" James asks. He's no expert on Saxon antiquities. For all that the cup looks like it should be on display in the Ashmolean or the British Museum, it could be a modern replica, cleverly made of gold-washed brass and nickel-silver. 

Lewis steps forward, but instead of peering closely at the goblet, he holds his right hand up, palm nearly touching the glass door. His forehead is creased, his mouth a tight line. Finally, he lets out a long breath. "It's real enough. It spent at least a thousand years buried in English soil." 

James stares at him. "Sorry, that's all I know," Lewis says apologetically. "Now, my grandad could have told you who made it, and when, who owned it, and where it was buried within a span of five acres." By 'grandad', Lewis means his paternal great-grandfather, the late Fae King of Underhill, who was already old when the Romans were unwelcome newcomers.

"Are they all from the same location?" It's possible that Hulbert discovered a Saxon hoard and neglected to report it to the authorities. He was an historian, not an archaeologist, but some of the most significant treasure finds in Britain were made by amateur metal detectorists.

"Good question." Lewis holds his hand before the knife, then a broach, and a few other items before turning back to James. He shakes his head. "They're all old, but they're from separate places. The... flavours are different, you might say."

That raises all kinds of interesting possibilities. "What now, sir?"

"Now we lock the house up tight and get a couple of uniforms to keep an eye on it. And call Animal Control to take charge of the dog. But first, you're going to take some photos with that fancy mobile of yours."

* * *

Chief Superintendent Jean Innocent frowns at the screen of James's mobile. "If Dr. Hulbert didn't find these artefacts, could he have purchased them legally?"

"Doubtful, ma'am," James replies. Under the Treasure Act of 1996, silver and gold items more than 300 years old must be reported to the district coroner.

"Legal or illegal, they'd cost a pretty penny," Lewis adds. "The cup alone must be worth thousands. And that seax with the gold collar—" He comes to a sudden halt under Innocent's narrowed gaze. He glances at his sergeant. "That's what you called it? That big knife?"

"Yes, sir." James doesn't know a seax from a saxophone, but Innocent won't question _his_ knowledge of historical minutiae.

"Might the treasure have provided a motive for the murder?"

"Too early to say for sure, ma'am," Lewis replies. "There's been no sign of the killer searching Hulbert's office or trying to break into his house. It could be that he met with a thief or a fence and got into a disagreement over payment that turned violent. What I'm wondering is, how could he afford to buy all that gold and silver stuff?"

James has been wondering about that, too. Hulbert didn't come from money, and he wasn't a media darling, with bestselling books and TV documentaries fattening his bank account.

"A very good question. The treasure itself isn't your concern—that will be given to the Coroner, who will have the items examined by appropriate experts." 

Possibly the Met's Art and Antiques Unit, which maintains the London Stolen Arts Database. Or Historic England, or even Interpol. From what little James knows, responsibility for tracing stolen artefacts in the UK is a rather patchwork affair.

Innocent fixes them both with A Look. "The Master of St Anselm's is very concerned about the attention this case is likely to receive in the press. It would be extremely unfortunate if word were to get out about possibly illicit treasure. Are we clear on this point, gentlemen?"

"Yes, ma'am," Lewis says briskly. James echoes him a second later.

She nods at them and turns her attention to some papers on her desk..

Their next stop is the computer lab where Hulbert's laptop is being examined by Gurdip. Seeing them enter, the tech rises to greet them. "I'm sorry, sir. I haven't been able to crack the password yet. I tried a dictionary tool which runs through a long list of common words. No results."

Lewis nods. "From what I've seen, those academic types prefer _un_ common words, and the longer the better. Hathaway has got a few ideas."

 _I do?_ When Gurdip excuses himself to see to some other duties, James turns to Lewis. "You do know that 'academic' comes in different flavours? Somehow I doubt that Hulbert used 'antinomianism' or 'homoousian' as his password."

"Try this," Lewis says, and scribbles a word on the back of an envelope: _ætýne_.

James types it in, carefully selecting the keystroke combination to form the _æ_ diphthong. As soon as he hits 'enter', the desktop appears. "Aha! The magic word." He looks questioningly at Lewis.

"Gurdip had the right idea—he was just using the wrong language. I may not be a computer expert, but I know the basic rule for passwords: try the obvious stuff first. Wife's name or kid's birthday. Like all the muppets at the gym who set their locker combinations to 1234 and are gobsmacked when someone nicks their wallets." Lewis grins. "It means 'open'.

Gurdip chooses that moment to return. "Oh, very good." he peers at the desktop. "What have we got here?"

Staring out at them from the screen is the silver and gold head of a warrior with eyes of darkness. James recognises the image. It's the restored Sutton Hoo helmet, probably the best-known example of Anglo-Saxon art. On the left side of the desktop are two rows of icons of file folders. The labels are unsurprising. There are folders for course materials, examination questions, and student grades, and others for his own research and writing. James clicks on the icon for 'grades'. A password window pops up.

"Try the system password you used before," Gurdip suggests.

James does so, and is rewarded with a list of files. He chooses one at random, opens it, then backs out to the desktop. He accesses several other folders in the same way. The icon marked 'Records' does not respond to the same password.

Lewis frowns. "What about his dog's name?" That doesn't work, either. A moment later, when Gurdip is distracted by a text on his mobile, Lewis writes a second word on the envelope: _cranicas._ "Hathaway, what about this other one you suggested?"

James obediently types it in, and 'Records' obediently displays dozens of files. The file names are all 3 or 4 digit numbers. James clicks on 2702. Another password window pops up. He tries each of the previous passwords, and the dog's name, all without success.

James is about to ask if the password-cracking program can be loaded with an Old English word list when his mobile rings. "Hathaway" He listens briefly, then turns to Lewis. "The uniforms guarding Hulbert's house caught a woman trying to enter. Lena Wiśniewski. She has a key; says she's the cleaner."

"Is she? I think we'd like to talk to her."

"Shall I have them bring her in, sir?"

"Nah, I think it'd be better for us to go there."

James nods, and relays Lewis's instructions to the constable. Before following his DI out of the lab, he quickly asks Gurdip about changing the dictionary. The tech isn't sure that it's possible, but is willing to make the attempt.

Once in the car, Lewis asks, "What were you talking to Gurdip about, at the end?"

James explains, and receives an approving nod in return.

"Good idea. I hadn't thought of that. Should have done." He sighs. "Thing is, I know the old speech is something that they teach in universities, and write books about. And just like everything else, it's on the bloody Internet. But to me, it's..." He presses his lips together, obviously frustrated.

 _The language of your childhood in a place without technology._ "You're just suffering from a touch of cognitive dissonance."

"What's that when it's at home?"

"Trying to hold two conflicting ideas in your mind."

Lewis snorts. "Story of my whole life, then." 

Lena Wiśniewski is pacing back and forth in front of the house, paying no heed to the two constables standing by the door. Part impatience and part moving to keep warm, James guesses. The October sun is dropping below the horizon, and she's wearing only a thin cardigan.

Her attention focuses on Lewis. "You are in charge, yes?"

Lewis identifies himself and Hathaway. "Bit late to be cleaning, isn't it?"

"I hear that the professor is dead—"

"How did you hear that?"

She looks surprised. "My friend Zofia—her sister Beata works in the kitchen at St Anselm's. She phoned me, and I was worried for Vivi."

"Who's that?"

"The dog, Wiglaf." She pronounces the name as _vee-glaf_.

James addresses one of the constables. "Have Animal Control been here yet to collect the dog?" 

"No sir."

Lewis nods. "Let's go inside, Miss Wiśniewski. You can see the dog and I'd like to ask a few questions." He stands aside to allow her to unlock the door with her own key.

She enters, and heads towards the closed kitchen door without hesitation. Wiglaf greets her with woofs and yips, and spins in circles around the room with remarkable energy for an elderly dog. " _Vivi! Kochanie_..." Lena bends over, stroking the dog's head and crooning to him in rapid Polish.

"He appears to know her," James murmurs.

"I'd say the evidence points that way." 

Lewis gestures for Lena to sit at the kitchen table before seating himself in the only other chair. He starts out with the usual questions and receives unsurprising answers. Lena was at another client's house at the time of the murder. No, the professor didn't have any enemies that she was aware of. No, he didn't seem worried or nervous. No, he didn't talk about his personal life with her—he didn't talk much at all. She never saw any evidence of visitors at the house.

"There's a room that's locked..." Lewis says casually, waving a hand in the general direction of the treasure chamber.

Lena nods. "The professor's private room. Sorry, I do not have the key.”

“What does he keep in there?” James asks.

She shrugs. “Books? Papers? The professors, they all have their secrets.” Her expression says that there is no understanding the peculiar ways of Oxford academics, and no reason to try. She returns to a more important topic. “I will take Vivi home, yes?”

The two detectives exchange glances. So far, the only relative they’ve uncovered is a distant cousin reported to have moved to Canada. Why send an elderly dog to an overcrowded shelter when he can have a home with someone who clearly dotes on him? "Yes," James says firmly. He instructs one of the PCs to help carry the food and paraphernalia belonging to Vivi _(né_ Wiglaf) out to Lena's car. They send her off with thanks for her cooperation, and instructions to call if she remembers anything helpful.

"There's one bit of good news, any road," Lewis says as they get into his car. "Now, if we could make some progress with the murder."

James hesitates, then decides to risk asking. "I've been wondering. What you did with the treasure—the way you read it—could you do something similar with the murder weapon?" 

Lewis glances at him, then returns his attention to the road. "No."

"Have you tried?"

"I know my limits."

James shrugs. He suspected that would be the answer.

"Any road," Lewis says, "I don't know that it would do much good. Might be difficult to explain to Innocent why we're bringing Mrs Thingummy or Mr Whatsit in for questioning."

"Or CPS," James replies. He doubts that there's a place for 'magical impressions' in the rules of evidence. "Wait a minute— _Mr_ Whatsit? Do you think we could be looking for a man?"

It's Lewis's turn to shrug. "We don't know that Ellen Cydan is the killer. Maybe she didn't turn up, or left early."

"Or... maybe Ellen is a man," James says slowly.

"What, like 'A Boy Named Sue'?" Lewis jokes.

It takes a moment to dredge up the memory from his first year at university. There'd been a guest speaker at the Philosophical Society: Ellen Christiansen, a Norwegian sociologist. James hadn't attended the lecture, but the next day, he'd overheard some male students lamenting that the blonde Norse goddess they'd expected was a broad-shouldered bloke with a handlebar mustache. "Ellen is sometimes a male name in Norway. It's a shortened version of Ellend. Like Joe for Joseph."

Lewis nods. "We'll keep our minds open."

"What's next, then?"

"Dinner, I reckon, and then we can call it a night. Curry or Chinese?"

"Pizza?"

They go to Antonio's, which is inexpensive, clean, and conveniently located en route to the nick, where James's own car is parked. The pizza is adequate. They chat about things other than the case, but don't linger over the meal. Afterwards, in the privacy of the car, Robbie hesitantly says, "James, _efning_ , there's something I've been thinking about. Do you remember what I did for Cousin Maggie? The _dor éadigende_?"

James remembers clearly. 'Cousin' Maggie is an elderly bookshop owner who they met up north. She's one of the hill-kin: mortals who have some Fae blood in their ancestry, and sometimes, a small gift of magic. Maggie's particular gift is to See magic, which she perceives as a kind of light. The _dor éadigende_ was a piece of protective magic which Robbie placed on her shop/home.

"I'd like to do that for you."

"I'm not a property owner," James points out. "I rent a flat."

Robbie shakes his head. "Doesn't have to be a building. There's more than one way to do it. Thought I'd put it on your bind-rune. If you're willing, that is."

James considers this. From what he recalls of Robbie's previous explanation, the _dor éadigende_ , or whatever this variant is called, will ward off harmful magic, and identify him to other Fae as being under Robbie's protection. He doubts it will ever be necessary. He’s not likely to ever encounter a strange Fae walking down The Broad, but if it will make Robbie happy.... "All right. What do you need me to do?"

"Just let me hold it." Robbie leans over, and pulls the bind-rune pendant from beneath James's shirt. He wraps his hand around the carved wood, and closes his eyes briefly. "Right. That's done and dusted." He looks appraisingly at the pendant. "I reckon that Cousin Maggie would want her sunglasses if she were here."

To James, ordinary mortal that he is, the pendant looks and feels no different than it did before. "So, now it's a magical neon sign saying, 'Property of Hreodbeord _ætheling_?'" he jokes, using Robbie's Fae name and title.

Hreodbeord _ætheling_ chuckles, and pulls something from his pocket. "No more than this says 'Property of James Hathaway.'" He opens his hand to reveal the tightly-rolled cylinder of birch bark that James gave him, inscribed with a Latin quote from the Song of Solomon.

"Fair enough," James agrees.

Later that night, James sits on his bed, looking down at the small piece of honey-coloured wood laying against his bare chest. It looks no different to when Robbie first gave it to him, but it feels more significant. He reaches up for the clasp of the gold chain, then lets his hands drop to his sides. There’s no real need to take it off.

He falls asleep with the verse from the Song of Solomon echoing in his mind. _I am my beloved's and my beloved is mine._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A co-worker told me how Wiglaf would be pronounced by a native Polish speaker, and what an appropriate endearment would be for a pet.
> 
> When looking at the goblet, Robbie quotes from Beowulf.
> 
> An image of the restored Sutton Hoo Helmet is  
> [here](http://images.ntpl.org.uk/hppa-zooms/00000000664/cms_1433773.bro).


	3. Āscunga (Inquiries)

The morning begins with a visit from Dr Hobson. "I was in the neighbourhood for a meeting, so I decided to deliver this in person." She drops a large envelope onto Lewis's desk. "The short version is pretty much what I told you yesterday: Excalibur was the murder weapon. Incidentally, when I said that it was wiped clean, I was more accurate than I realised at the time. There were traces of a cleaning solution on the hilt. Not enough to do a proper full analysis, but the main ingredients were isopropyl alcohol and some kind of detergent."

James considers this. "Doctor, what sort of product are we looking for?"

Laura Hobson shrugs. "With those two extremely common ingredients? There are too many to name. Wipes for cleaning your glasses, hand sanitiser, kitchen spray cleaners, and even the sort of packaged wipes you get with Chinese takeaway."

Not much help in that, so all they can do is thank Dr Hobson, and look elsewhere for information.

The rest of the morning is devoted to questioning everyone who ever knew Edwin Hulbert. Or so it seems to James, who is tasked with distributing lists of names to the constables who will do most of the questioning. The man had been a fixture at St Anselm's for twenty-three years. There are students, past and present, faculty members at his college and others, and other members of the broader Oxford community.

"Got anything for us?" Lewis asks.

James holds up a paper with a short list of names. "Yes, sir. We have an editor at the University Press, a disgruntled former student, and an assistant curator at the Ashmolean."

Amy Selwyn is a thirty-something woman with tired eyes and a brittle smile. Being interrupted by two policemen seems to be a welcome distraction from her workday. She makes a point of informing them that she is  _ not _ an Oxford graduate.

"Cambridge?" Lewis asks, with a smile and a side-glance at James.

"Lancaster." She throws it down like a challenge.

James nods. He's heard good things about their creative writing programme, which has turned out several Booker Prize nominees. Still, quite a few Oxford scholars are likely to turn up their noses at a degree from a plate-glass university that was founded in the second half of the twentieth century. "What had Dr Hulbert been working on recently?"

The pause to think calms her, as he intended. "Erm... poetry. Caedmon."

"Wrote a lot about literary stuff, did he?" Lewis asks.

"Literature, history, culture—the whole gamut of Anglo-Saxon studies—but he always came back to Beowulf."

James isn't surprised. "How long have you been Dr Hulbert's editor?"

"Six months." Selwyn pulls a face. "Shortly after I was hired. Junior editors tend to be assigned to work with some of the more... challenging contributors."

"Difficult, was he?" Lewis asks. 

"They're  _ all _ difficult. They all want more page space, more tables and illustrations, and dozens of last-minute changes. The battles I've had over footnotes—" She takes a deep breath. "Sorry. I suppose I'm trying not to think about what happened. I can't imagine who would want to kill Dr Hulbert. He was a bit of a nosy prat, but..."

James jumps in. "Nosy? In what way?"

She flushes. "It wasn't anything significant."

"You'd be surprised how often little details can make a difference," Lewis says gently.

"Whenever he came into the office, he seemed to be curious about whatever papers were on my desk. One day, I left the room to photocopy a document for him. I realised that I'd forgotten one page. Dr Hulbert had been sitting in the guest chair, but when I came in, he was standing, facing the file cabinet. He turned around very quickly, as if I'd startled him, and said something about his knees getting stiff if he didn't get up and walk around."

"What do you keep in there?"

"Contracts, mostly. It's kept locked, but I had to open it to retrieve the document he asked for."

"And what were those?"

"His most recent contract. He'd mislaid his own copy. I offered to email him a PDF, but he said that he was an old man, and set in his ways, and he preferred paper."

"Do you think he opened the cabinet?"

"I don't know." She purses her lips, considering. "I suppose he might have done. The copier is two rooms over, and it took me a moment to realise I'd forgotten a page. He wouldn't have had much time to look at anything."

They ask a few more standard questions, and get unsurprising answers. She was at work at the time of the murder. Until half four she was in a meeting with an author, but then she was alone at her desk. She left at half five, and joined some friends at a pub.

They thank her and return to the car. "Thoughts?" Lewis asks.

James frowns. "I suppose she could have ducked out without being noticed. Busy office, people going back and forth."

"St Anselm's is just a two-minute walk away," Lewis agrees, but he doesn't sound convinced. "I don't see it. We'll keep her on the list, but not on top."

Lewis parks across the street from the office of Hawcroft Tours. "Family firm?"

James consults his notebook. "Yes. Founded by Steven Hawcroft three years ago. Alan, his son, was one of Hulbert's students until last year."

"Was he sent down?"

"No. He withdrew voluntarily. There were apparently tensions between him and Hulbert. A week before he left, witnesses overheard Alan at a pub, announcing how much he hated the 'nasty old worm.'"

"Did he say why?"

James furrows his brow, thinking. He hadn't had time to do more than glance at the many reports compiled by the DCs who'd canvassed staff and students. "Something about a fondness for snakes. DC Tolliver asked if that might be a reference to sexual indiscretions, and the witness laughed. Said that sex only interested Hulbert if it happened a thousand years ago. There are no official complaints on file, and no rumours of improprieties. No rumours of any intimate relationships, actually."

"That was all? No mention of violence or revenge?"

"None," James says firmly. Even skimming the reports, that would have jumped out at him.

"All right. Let's go in and have a talk with Alan."

The office is an attractive blend of past and present. The front desk is antique oak, topped with a sleek black laptop. The young man behind the desk greets them warmly, but his smile dims when they show their warrant cards and ask to speak to Alan Hawcroft. He speaks a few words into a phone. "Mr Hawcroft will be with you shortly."

James wanders around the reception area, looking at the wall decor. In addition to the usual tourist posters of Blenheim Palace and the Uffington White Horse, the walls are decorated with pictures of the countryside and reproductions of antique maps. Between colourful photos of bluebells and marsh-marigolds hangs  _ A new improved map of Oxfordshire from the Best Sources and Intelligences, 1750 _ .

A framed article from a local business journal catches his eye. 'New tour company has roots in Oxfordshire'. The article quotes Steven Hawcroft as saying that his tour company will focus on the history and natural beauty of his native county. "Not just famous sites like Blenheim Palace and Broughton Castle, but also lesser-known places that show how the ordinary people lived and worked though the centuries." 

A door at the back of the room opens. "What's this about?" The man who comes forward is in his mid-forties, wearing a grey suit that was subtly tailored to flatter his stocky build. His wide face is probably pleasant, even attractive, when he's smiling. He's not smiling now. "Alan's not here. I'm his father," he says in a broad Oxfordshire accent that reminds James of voices of his childhood.

They show their warrant cards. "Do you know where we can find him? Or when he'll return?" Lewis asks.

Hawcroft glances at his watch. "Morning tour to Blenheim returned half an hour ago. Likely he'll be in the garage. It's not far." He leads them out the front door and across the street. "Is the boy in trouble?"

"We just need to ask him some questions," James says.

"You one of those university toffs?" Hawcroft says. It's a challenge.

"University, yes. Oxford, no. Toff? Sadly, my bank account disagrees.”  _ And I have it on good authority that I don't qualify. _ Scarlett's voice echoes in his mind.  _ 'You're not one of us _ .' It doesn’t rankle as much as it used to. She was right: James was not one of them and never would be.  _ Thank God. _ Under the pretext of adjusting his tie, he feels the outline of the bind-rune pendant beneath his shirt.  _ Beloved of theYew _ .

Hawcroft grunts. "Follow me."

The garage is two streets away, behind a hardware store. Inside, a wiry man with streaks of silver in his ginger hair, is peering under the bonnet of a small minibus. Hawcroft greets him. "Owen, is Alan about?"

Alan has apparently gone to Pret for a takeaway lunch, but will be back soon. Hawcroft joins Owen at the front of the van, offering advice and gesturing emphatically. He picks up a small rubber mallet, and taps on something James can't see from where he stands. The problem solved—or beaten into submission—Hawcroft returns to his two "guests".

"You do your own repairs, sir?" Lewis asks.

"The simple stuff, yeah. No sense in throwing good money away for what Owen and me can do ourselves. I was a coach driver for twenty years." He names a well-known national tour company. "Different routes, but I drove all over the country. Land's End to John o'Groats."

Just then a young voice calls out, "Oi! Owen! They were out of ham and cheese, so I got you cheddar and pickle instead. That all right?"

A few minutes later, they're in the small office at the rear of the garage. The grey walls are decorated with football posters and a calendar from a local car parts shop. Lewis and Alan Hawcroft are sat on opposite sides of the battered folding table that serves as a desk. James leans against the wall behind his DI, and Hawcroft  _ pere _ hovers over his son.

The young man glances curiously at the two detectives. He leans forward, fingers of his right hand drumming on his thigh. "What's this about?" he asks, echoing his father's earlier question.

Lewis asks about Alan's whereabouts the previous afternoon.

The answer is surprisingly prompt. Alan glances down at his mobile. "I was in Banbury until 4:16, then drove back to Oxford. I let off my tour party at 5:07 at the Visitor Centre, then returned the minibus to the garage at 5:18."

"That's very precise," Lewis comments, just a hint of challenge beneath his mild tone. 

"That's what the app on my mobile says. You can check the tachograph in the minibus, if you don't believe me."

"And on the computer in the office," his father adds. "Now what's going on?"

"Professor Edwin Hulbert—" 

Alan sucks in a quick breath. His father's face reddens. "What's that tosser saying about my boy?"

"Professor Hulbert isn't saying anything, Mr Hawcroft, because he was murdered yesterday."

James is expecting Hawcroft's indignant outburst, so he's able to tune it out. He focuses on Alan. The young man's eyes are wide, mouth gaping. "Murdered? But... how? Who?"

"Stabbed to death in his office," James says matter-of-factly. "As for who, that's what we're trying to discover."

Alan scowls at him. "It wasn't me. Didn't like him, won't miss him, but I didn't kill the old bugger."

"When did you last see Professor Hulbert?" Lewis asks.

"Dunno the exact date. End of Hilary term, when I left." 

_ A year ago, March. _

Lewis leans forward. "Why did you leave?"

"Got tired of all the reading and revising and lectures." Alan shrugs. "And I wanted to work with my dad. It's my firm, too. We built it together. We're a team." The last sentence is spoken with unshakeable certainty.

"Just like that?"

Another, more eloquent shrug. "Yeah."

"A week before you suddenly decided to abandon your education, you were in The Three Bells, drinking. According to witnesses, you made some very angry remarks about Dr Hulbert."

"Told you, I didn't like him."

"One witness said you called him a worm."

Alan shrugs. "Might have done. I don't remember. I was more'n half-smashed."

Steven Hawcroft leans forward. "Are you going to interrogate every student who ever slagged off his professor?" Lewis doesn't bother to reply. His attention remains on Alan.

_ My turn _ , James decides. "Any thoughts on who might have killed him? Or why?"

There's a flicker of  _ something _ , and then the defiant mask is back in place. "Haven't got a clue."

A few more questions bring no useful answers. Lewis hands his card to Alan and asks for the young man's phone number, while James requests contact information from Steven Hawcroft for the guests on yesterday's tour.

They walk back to the tour office, leaving Alan behind with Owen. Mr Hawcroft brings them into the back office so he can provide the list of tourists. When the printer spits it out, he holds the paper in front of him, clenched in both hands, like a shield. "He's a good lad, my Alan. Always has been. He's no plaster saint, but he's decent and honest. I've had the raising of him for fifteen years, and I  _ know _ he could never do that."

"And Alan's mum?" Lewis asks.

Hawcroft's face turns cold. "The bitch ran off with a banker from Milton Keynes. She wanted to start over. A new life in a new place, with someone who could take her on holiday to the Seychelles instead of Salcombe."

"That must have been hard on Alan," James says.

"He was five years old, and she left him with my mum, like he was a puppy she couldn't be arsed to take care of. No place in her 'new life' for a little boy. I was in Cornwall with a coachload of Japanese tourists when I got the news. The company arranged for a supply driver to take over. The interpreter told the group that there was a family emergency, and I had to go home to take care of my son. Just before I left, this one woman came up to me with a little plushie she'd bought at the Newquay Zoo—a frog. She said that I should give it to my son. The interpreter told me that frogs are symbols of good luck and safe journeys." Hawcroft shakes his head. "A stranger from the other side of the world, and she cared more about my Alan than his own flesh and blood.

"I went home to my little boy, told him that we were a team, and promised I would never leave him. The very next day I arranged with the company that I'd only drive day trips. Meant a cut in pay, but—" He shrugs, and hands the printout to Lewis. "You can call every fucking person on that list, and they'll tell you that Alan was where he said. My boy doesn't lie."

A quick call to the Ashmolean reveals that Dr Alwin won't be available until 1:30. "Lunch," Lewis decrees.

They find a nearby pub, and order two of the chicken pie specials. James excuses himself for a few minutes to make some phone calls in the relative quiet of the car. When he returns, Lewis looks at him inquiringly.

"It  _ was _ Alan Hawcroft on the tour yesterday," James reports. "I said I was doing a survey for the Oxfordshire Tourist Association." There's no such organization, but there are a half-dozen with similar names. "They all remembered him, and two of them gave me a good description. Mr Samuel Maasburg of Amherst, Ohio complimented him on his knowledge of and passion for the history of his country. Mrs Evelyn Oliver of Weehawken, New Jersey told me that Alan reminds her of her nephew, Austin."

"Weehawken?"

James shrugs. It's no odder than Giggleswick, Nether Wallop, or Great Snoring. "The name is a Native American word meaning 'Place of Gulls'. It's where Alexander Hamilton was shot during his duel with Aaron Burr."

Lewis's brows shoot up higher. "You knew all that?"

"I did not. Mrs Oliver shared that with me, along with several other facts about her hometown, before I could end the call."

Lewis chuckles. "So Alan has got a good alibi." His face sobers. "But he knows  _ something _ ."

"I'd swear he was surprised to hear about Hulbert's death," James replies.

"Aye. Didn't know he'd been killed, didn't know he was going to be killed..."

"But not surprised that someone might  _ want _ to kill Hulbert. Do you think he knows who?"

Lewis hesitates. "Hard to say. I'm thinking we need to have another conversation with Alan."

"And without his father present." 

The waiter arrives with their food, and for several minutes, the only sound at their table is the soft clinking of cutlery. James notices that Lewis is frowning at his plate. "Something wrong with your food?" His own is very good.

"What? No, it's fine. Just woolgathering. Trying to remember why Ellen Cydan sounds familiar."

"You'll remember it," James assures him. "You just need to put it in the right context. Something will connect and you'll  _ know _ ."

"I hope so," Lewis grumbles, but he returns to eating and chatting about inconsequential things.

Lunch finished, they return to the car. As Lewis pulls away from the kerb, he says, "All right, we've got a curator to interview."

The receptionist at the museum's administration office informs them that Dr Alwin is tied up with an international conference call. He should be finished in ten to fifteen minutes, and would they like some tea? Lewis declines the offer. "Tell Dr Alwin we'll wait for him in Early British Art."

James has visited the Ashmolean many times. He's even been here on business. The Early British Art gallery hasn't changed since his last visit, but he's looking at it with new eyes because of the man beside him.

The man beside him strides past a glass-topped case of golden brooches and bracelets with barely a glance, and halts in front of a display at the far end of the gallery. "First time I ever set foot in this museum, it was on account of that." He gestures at the item set prominently in the centre of the display. It's a large silver buckle, embossed with intricate patterns, and ornamented with enamel work and cabochon rubies. 

"Was it because of... personal interest?" James asks.

"Nah, because of police interest. Morse and I went to see about an American tourist found dead at the Randolph. Turned out to be natural causes, but there were some complications. She was a rich art collector, and she owned the tongue half of the buckle, which had been smuggled out of England about eighty years ago. The tongue went missing after she died. Then there were a few more deaths that actually  _ were _ murders. One of the victims was a curator here. Long story."

"I don't suppose you were able to use your expertise?"

Lewis snorts. "I don't think Morse would have appreciated that. Any road, none was needed. The murders had nothing to do with the buckle or the museum—just infidelity, jealousy and revenge."

He turns his back on the buckle, and wanders over to a less prominent display labelled 'Daily Life'. His face brightens. "I had one of those when I was a bairn." He points to a metal spoon with a wide bowl and a slender, sticklike handle. "Just like that, only mine was silver, and it had the rune  _ Sowilo  _ etched on it, for health."

"What did you do with it?" James finds himself imaging mystic Fae rituals: perhaps a bowl of dewdrops gathered beneath a full moon, stirred thrice widdershins with a silver spoon.

Lewis gives him an odd look. "Mostly, I ate porridge with it. Or soup." He breaks into a sudden smile. "Once I held it by the wrong end and challenged one of the  _ hearthweru _ to a duel."

"How old were you?" James asks, then wishes he could take back the question.  _ 'Time flows oddly Underhill.' _ Robbie was born in 1821, and was still a child when he chose to make his home in the mortal world in the 1950s.

"Young enough to think that dueling a royal hearth-guard was a good idea. I barely came to his waist, and his _s_ _ eax _ was longer than my arm." Robbie shakes his head. "He was kind. Told me that he was honoured by my challenge, but he couldn't leave his post."

"Was that your friend?" James gropes for the name. "Oswy Réod?"

"Nah. Oswy would have told me to stop playing silly buggers and not abuse my rank―"

"Inspector Lewis?" A lean, balding man with dark eyes hurries into the gallery. "I'm Horace Alwin." He looks quizzically at Lewis. "Have we met before?"

"Not that I recall."

"Well, my apologies for keeping you waiting. I was on the phone with the Met."

James frowns. The receptionist said that Alwin was on an  _ international _ call. Did he lie to her? What business does he have with the Metropolitan Police?

Lewis asks bluntly. "The Met? In London?"

Now it's Alwin's turn to look confused. "In New York."

The penny drops. “The Metropolitan Museum of Art,” James says.

“Yes,” Alwin doesn't add ‘of course’. His bewildered expression says it clearly enough. He glances at a group of chattering tourists entering the gallery. "Shall we take this to my office?"

Alwin's office isn't very different to that of most university academics. There's the usual assortment of framed certificates and photos. One catches James's eye: a candid shot of a much-younger Alwin at an archaeological dig, a mane of dark curls tied back with a multicoloured bandanna. He's bent over a stone block, and grinning with delight at something that only he can see.

The curator catches him looking. "At times, when it seems like I'm excavating a bottomless midden of paperwork, it helps to remember what I love about my profession."

"What did you find?" James asks.

"Just a Latin graffito. I was unskilled labour on a dig near Hadrian's Wall, and I noticed some scratches on that stone." He pauses, then recites, " _ Marcus cacator hic fuit _ ."

_ Marcus the defecator was here.  _ James isn’t entirely successful in repressing a smile, and Alwin looks alarmed.  _ He didn’t expect us to understand. _ On impulse, James recites the bawdiest graffito he can recall from a book on Pompeii. “We tend to forget that the ancients were real people who complained about their bosses, insulted their rivals, and made crude jokes about bodily functions.”

“Just so.” Alwin looks relieved. “There was nothing unique about that stone or the inscription, but it was as though the centuries rolled away and I could  _ see _ Marcus the centurion standing before me.”

_ Or squatting _ , James thinks.

“As interesting as all this is,” Lewis says dryly, “We've got some questions to ask you about more modern people.” He pauses. Alwin looks at him inquiringly, but doesn't speak.

"Professor Edwin Hulbert." Lewis drops the name into the silence like a pebble into still water. James watches to see what kinds of ripples will follow. Nervousness? Suspicion? Polite disinterest?

What follows is as unexpected as an erupting geyser. “This is too much! What does the interfering old bugger think he’s about, getting the police involved? What did he say to you?”

"Dr Hulbert hasn't said anything to us, sir, and never will, seeing as he was murdered Wednesday afternoon.” 

Alwin's face goes pale. "He's dead? But—why?"

"That's what we're trying to determine," James says. He takes Alwin through the standard questions. Alwin was having tea with some prospective donors at the time of the murder. He has no idea who might want Hulbert dead.

Lewis wants to know why he thought the victim had contacted the police

“He’d been making a fuss about the provenance of some of the pieces for the exhibition,” Alwin replies, voice subdued, but still tinged with his earlier anger.

Janes frowns. The provenance of artefacts  _ could _ be a police matter if they’re suspected of being stolen or forged.

"He thought they were dodgy?" Lewis asks.

Alwin scowls, as if Lewis had impugned his mother's virtue. "Certainly not. He thought they were... misidentified."

Time for some clarity, James decides. "What exactly is this exhibition, and what was Dr Hulbert's connection to it?"

"It's to be an international touring exhibition in collaboration with the Met and the DHM—the Deutsches Historisches Museum. The working title is 'Hidden Art of a Hidden People: Treasures of the Fae.'"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Giggleswick, Nether Wallop, Great Snoring, and Weehawken are all real places.
> 
> The old case that Robbie mentions is from an episode of _Inspector Morse_ : "The Wolvercote Tongue".


	4. Ealdġestrēon (Ancient Treasure)

James freezes. What should he say? What would he have said in the humdrum days before Robbie Lewis had overturned his tidy view of reality with a whirlwind conjured by magic and righteous anger? An irrational fear seizes him: if he opens his mouth, he'll betray Robbie's secret.

"You believe in the Fae, sir?" a Geordie voice says with polite scepticism.

"Well..." Alwin launches into a condensed version of the standard academic theory: the Fae were a people-group with a distinct artistic style. Possibly an ethnic isolate or a religious cult, but certainly not a race of magical beings. "The notion is absurd."

"Daft," Lewis agrees, with a brisk nod. 

"What was Dr Hulbert's role in this exhibition?" James asks.

"The museum contracted with him to provide text for some of the informational panels, in Old English and in modern translation. Relevant quotes from the literature, to provide a context for the artefacts."

"But he exceeded his remit," James prompts.

"To put it mildly. He had strong opinions about which of the artefacts selected for the exhibition were crafted by Fae, and which were not. And he had no hesitation about sharing those opinions. _De mortuis nihil nisi bonum_ , and all that, but he simply didn't know what he was talking about."

"But you employed him for this exhibition?" Lewis asks.

Alwin waves a dismissive hand. "Oh, he was brilliant at literature and history, which is what we needed him for. He had no training in archaeology, let alone fieldwork experience. What did _he_ know about artefacts?"

 _What indeed?_ James wonders if any of the treasures in the hidden room had been Fae-made. He's not sure of the differences between Fae and human artistry. The research he'd done in the past was centred around the legends and lore of the Fae. There'd been occasional mentions of swords with jewelled hilts, silver drinking cups, and gold rings and bracelets of all kinds, often given as gifts to favoured mortals. Descriptions were scanty, and probably enhanced by modern editors. The only Fae-crafted artefact he's seen with his own eyes is an amber pendant currently tucked beneath Robbie's shirt. It's carved into the shape of the rune _Eoh_ , meaning 'the yew tree'—the emblem of magic and of Fae royalty. 

James chooses his words carefully. "Did Dr Hulbert share his strong opinions with anyone outside the Ashmolean?"

"I've no idea," Alwin says, shrugging, "but it hardly matters. No one of consequence would have taken his objections seriously." 

"So, he couldn't have made trouble for you?" Lewis asks.

Alwin snorts. "At the risk of seeming immodest, I have an international reputation in this field. And it's not just my judgement he was questioning, but also my colleagues at the two other partner museums. If Hulbert made his views public, he'd be laughed at, just as if I tried to publish a grammatical analysis of Beowulf."

"You don't speak the old... erm, Old English?".

"I've got a decent reading knowledge. Enough to be getting on with. I can tell an _ash_ from an _eth_ from a _thorn_ ," Alwin jokes, naming three of the letters in the Anglo-Saxon alphabet.

The shadow of a frown flickers over Lewis's face. James wonders if it's in response to Alwin's comments, and if the reaction is professional—or personal. His governor opens his mouth—perhaps to end the interview—but the curator speaks first.

"Would you like to see the artefacts?"

James would very much like to see the artefacts, though he doubts they're relevant to the case. He glances at his governor, and gets an answering nod. "Lead the way."

The Fae artefacts for the exhibition are in a storeroom. They’re in glass-topped cases, grouped by type of item: jewelry, weapons, drinking vessels, tools, etc. At first glance, James can't see any real difference between these items and their counterparts on display in Early British Life.

Dr Alwin is happy to explain. He points to a few items, describing the subtleties of design in each one that are typical of Fae handicraft. Most of these also demonstrate the "hidden art" referred to in the title of the exhibit. He gestures at a silver cup, which is engraved on the inside with a pattern of fine, wavy lines. "Can you see what is hidden there?"

James bends over the glass. He spots a tiny irregularity in the pattern, a few centimetres below the rim. "Is that a fish?"

"Yes, and well spotted, but that's not the secret."

Lewis says, a little too casually, "I dunno if it's a secret, but there's something funny about how those waves are made. The lines aren't connected."

It's true. The waves are formed by many little angular shapes, rather like upside-down fish hooks. They're so close together that at first glance they appear to form the expected zig-zag. Alwin beams. "Very good! That shape, which as you see is repeated many times, is the Anglo-Saxon rune _lagu_ , meaning ocean."

"Oh, yes?" Lewis's air of innocent surprise would convince anyone that he doesn't know a _lagu_ from a lager. Well, anyone who isn't James.

Alwin leads them to another case, and points out a few more examples of "secret art". He leaves off the guessing games, and just identifies the hidden feature of each piece. James asks some questions to keep the conversation from being one-sided. Lewis nods attentively, but is silent. What is he thinking? What memories are these artefacts evoking? _Maybe he'll tell me later._

"Which are the pieces that Dr Hulbert said weren't authentic?" Robbie asks suddenly.

Alwin's lips tighten, but he replies calmly, "This arm-ring, that knife, the pendant on the left, the smaller spoon there..." He turns around, and points at a case they've not yet seen, "And that strip brooch in the centre—although that one's not being included in the exhibit."

Robbie doesn't reply. He's staring at the last-mentioned item with an intensity that he usually reserves for murder weapons, footprints, and other major clues.

James hardly needs to think about his next move: distract Alwin while his governor is doing whatever he's doing. "Why isn't it included? Is that one of... erm, uncertain origin?"

"Of course not! None of them are. This piece just isn't the best example of Fae artistry."

It's easy enough to see why the strip brooch is so named. It's made of a narrow strip of copper, vaguely oval, with tapered ends. At the top, the metal has been twisted and drawn out into a thin wire, which is bent behind the flat part of the brooch. James can't see the back, but he assumes that the tip of the wire has been sharpened to make a pin.

"It's handsome enough, I suppose," Alwin continues, "and the feather design is uncommon, but there's no secret to it."

James can see that the brooch is lightly etched. A vertical line goes from tip to tip, with finer irregular lines extending diagonally from it on either side. It does look like a somewhat untidy feather. 

"But it's staying here?" The casual tone of Lewis's query is belied by his stiff shoulders and expressionless face.

"Here in the Ashmolean, yes. All of the artefacts that didn't make the cut will be going back on regular display shortly."

"Right." The shoulders relax. "Thank you very much for your time and cooperation, Dr Alwin."

James echoes his governor's words. "And thank you for showing us the artefacts." He waits until they're out of the museum to turn to Lewis. "What do you think?"

Lewis raises his brows. "He's not the killer. We'll want to check the alibi, but I don't think he's lying."

"I meant the artefacts. Are they all Fae-work?" At Lewis's nod, he continues, "Even the ones that Dr Hulbert challenged?"

"All of them. Alwin knows what he's talking about. Which is not surprising, seeing as he's _hyllcynn_." He drops his voice as he says the last word.

James waits until they're inside the car and en route to the nick before continuing the conversation. "He hides it well," he says, thinking of Alwin's blunt dismissal of Fae magic.

"Likely he doesn't know. Maybe his parents didn't tell him, or maybe _they_ didn't know. Gifts can skip a few generations. And I'd guess he hasn't met any of the _hyllcynn_ living hereabouts—not that there are many of those."

James is surprised that there are any. The hill-kin that he'd met while on holiday in the north seemed firmly rooted to the area near the portal to Underhill.

Robbie murmurs a short phrase in Old English. He purses his lips before offering a translation. "'Where portals are, _hyllcynn_ are not far.' There used to be portals all over Britain, in the old days. Most of them were closed before my time." Which could mean any time before the reign of George IV. "Any road, Alwin was right about all the artefacts, and Hulbert was talking out of his arse." Robbie turns into the car park of the nick.

"Speaking of the artefacts..." James pauses, then plunges ahead. "There was one that seemed to catch your eye. The strip brooch, patterned like a feather?"

"That's the one thing that Alwin got wrong. It's not a feather. It's a sprig of yew."

That certainly explains Robbie's interest. "What is it for?"

"I haven't any idea." Robbie replies. He switches off the ignition, and opens his door. As he's getting out, he says over his shoulder, "I only know that it's not meant to leave Britain, and if Cousin Maggie were here, sunglasses wouldn't be enough to keep her from being half-blinded." A dozen questions are on the tip of James's tongue, but before he can articulate one of them, Lewis gets out of the car. "I know one more thing: it's got nothing to do with our case. Let's go inside, see if Gurdip has got anywhere with the computer."

One glance at the technician's face tells James that Gurdip has got exactly nowhere with the computer. "Sorry, sir." He rattles off a list of the techniques he's tried to crack Hulbert's password. "And I tried the dictionary that Sergeant Hathaway suggested, but nothing matched. Of course, the password could be a phrase..." Lewis dismisses him with thanks and a request to keep trying.

* * *

The next few days are spent checking and rechecking... everything. Evidence, timelines, witness statements, and a mountain of documents.

James finishes his lunch—a slightly stale ham baguette washed down with lukewarm coffee—and checks the next name on his to-be-called list. Phil Ackerman is the student who witnessed Alan Hawcroft's outburst in the pub.

"Yeah, he called Dr. Hulbert a worm, and said he only loved snakes, or something—what's that, love? My girlfriend says I've got it wrong. She was in the pub with me. I didn't know she heard him, because she'd gone to the Ladies."

When Lewis returns from his own lunch, James hands him a page torn from his notebook. "According to the witness's girlfriend, this is what Alan shouted in the pub." He recites from memory, "He's a nasty old worm, and the only thing he loves is the bed of serpents."

Lewis looks down at the paper with narrowed eyes. "That changes things. Alan didn't say 'worm', he called Hulbert a ' _wyrm_.'"

James catches the small difference in the sound of the vowel. When they read excerpts from _Beowulf_ in sixth form (in modern English), the teacher had provided a brief vocabulary list of Old English. One of the words was _wyrm_ : serpent or dragon. "And the bed?"

"It's a kenning." Lewis glances inquiringly at James. He nods to indicate he knows the term: a poetic metaphor, such as 'whale-road' for the sea. "Bed of serpents means gold."

 _Because dragons traditionally sleep on a pile of gold_. "Do you think that Alan knew about Hulbert's collection? Quite a lot of gold there, in his hidden dragon's hoard." It opens up quite a few questions. If Alan discovered that Hulbert owned a collection of valuable antiquities, he might also know (or suspect) that the professor was probably dealing with criminals. Could that explain his sudden withdrawal from the university?

"That's a very interesting question," Lewis observes, "And one I'd like to ask Alan."

They discuss several different possibilities. Innocent will be _very_ displeased if they reveal the secret of Hulbert's treasure to someone who didn't already know about it. It takes time to decide on the best approach, and even longer to hammer out the exact wording. Then James needs to rehearse. He finds himself repeating the crucial phrase over and over.

"It doesn't have to be perfect," Lewis says with fond exasperation. "He was just a first-year student—he won't be rating your pronunciation like a bloody Olympic judge. As long as he can recognize what you're saying, that's good enough."

 _Show time._ James pulls out his mobile, and punches in Alan Hawcroft's number. The call goes directly to voicemail. _Plan B_. He identifies himself, then launches into the script they agreed on. "Sometimes, when we investigate a death, we come across information about other matters of interest," he says smoothly. Lewis had wanted him to say 'murder' and 'other crimes', but James felt that subtlety was the way to begin. "In particular, I have some questions about the 'bed of serpents.'" He pauses one beat, and repeats the kenning in Old English. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Lewis's approving nod. He finishes with the usual formula that he could recite in his sleep: very important... please call anytime ...appreciate your cooperation...

He looks at Lewis, who nods his approval. "And now?"

"And now we wait."


	5. Lēasunga and Sōþfæstnes (Lies and Truth)

James has never been particularly good at waiting; at least not in situations where he doesn't know when—or _if_ —the desired event will occur. His spiritual advisor at the seminary chided him more than once, _"You must learn to wait on the acceptable time of the Lord, James."_ He'd bowed his head and prayed for patience. He'd learned to pretend to be patient, which he supposed was the next best thing. It hasn't been as much of an issue in his police career, because he's freer to take action. But still, there are the times when there's nothing that he can do but wait.

At least he has other duties to keep him busy. There are more telephone calls, though none of them are as helpful as the one with Phil Ackerman and his sharp-eared girlfriend. There's paperwork, too (there is _always_ paperwork). But even squinting at DC Ganivet's cramped handwriting on a PRF-2287 doesn't really distract him. Each time his mobile rings, his heart-rate speeds up. Each time it's someone other than Alan Hawcroft. He comes very close to snapping at the music shop assistant who phones to tell him that the new strings for his Gibson have arrived.

Time to try a different distraction. After twenty minutes of online searching, he lets out a quiet _hmmm_ of satisfaction.

Lewis raises his head from his own computer. "Found something interesting?"

James gestures at the screen of his computer. 'Local Man Wins Lotto'. It's an article from the _Oxford Mail_ , dated four years ago. The sum mentioned isn't one of the biggest prizes, but enough to provide capital for a new business.

"Interesting... likely not relevant to the case, but it never hurts to have information." And Lewis launches into an anecdote about how Morse once identified a murderer based on the colour of the victim's socks. 

Eventually, the day comes to an end. James tidies the papers on his desk, leaving the list of people to be phoned on top of the stack. He reluctantly turns down a dinner offer from Robbie. "Sorry, I've got rehearsal tonight."

* * *

The other members of the band are already in the church hall when James arrives, but they're still tuning up, so he's not late.

Greg Miller, the bassist, presses his hand against his chest, in mock astonishment. "Oi! Look who decided to grace us with his presence!"

James sets his guitar case on one of the benches. "Missed me, did you?"

Oliver Latham looks up from the piano. "How was your holiday? Went to Scotland, didn't you?"

"Northumberland National Park," James corrects him. _I spent a week waiting for my boss to explain why he kissed me, then spent the second week having amazing sex with him and watching him do impossible things. And did I mention that he's a Fae Prince, born the same year that George IV was crowned?_ "It was good, thanks. Saw some of the historical sites, did a fair bit of walking, and some riding." He lifts the Gibson out of her case. "Got some practice in, too."

"Well, thank Christ for that, because the gig at Robertson's is coming up fast." Bran Williams picks up his sax. "Let's get started, yeah?"

The first tune on the playlist is gently melancholic, though the moderate tempo and intricate melody keep it from sounding like a dirge. It's not one of the tunes that James played while awaiting Robbie's return, but something about it evokes those days keeping vigil on a northern hillside.

Later comes a jazzy version of _Dance for the Faeries_ from Purcell's _The Faerie-Queen_ . When it's his turn for the solo, James thinks about the magic he witnessed up north. He can't tell anyone about his relationship with Robbie—yet. He can _never_ tell anyone about Robbie's secret. But in this moment, he can let the music speak for him, let it convey the wonder, the joy, and the frisson of excitement he felt in those moments.

And so it goes: song after song, memory after memory. When the sound of the final chord finally fades away, Bran nods with satisfaction. "Good session."

Oliver adds, "James, mate, you were on fire tonight, but especially during the last piece."

James flushes. The last piece was a variation on Beethoven's _Appassionata_ , and his playing was mostly inspired by vivid memories of the wild sex he'd had with Robbie in the Vale. On the velvety moss, under the open sky. "Thanks."

"Whatever you were doing on your holiday," Bran says, "you should do more of it."

Greg waggles his eyebrows suggestively, like a Benny Hill character. "Didn't you hear what the man told us? He went _riding_."

 _He doesn't know. He's just guessing._ "Bugger off, Greg," James says mildly, but he lets the corners of his mouth curl into the barest hint of a smile.

* * *

The next morning, James arrives at the nick a bit earlier than usual. By the time Lewis walks into the office, he's ready for his second cup of coffee. He's about to excuse himself when the phone rings. "Hathaway. Who? Yes, I'll be right there." Turning to his governor, he says, "That was the desk sergeant. Mr Alan Hawcroft is here to see me."

"See if Interview 2 is open," Lewis directs.

James nods. None of the interview rooms are spacious, but Interview 2 is the least claustrophobic. He heads for Reception, knowing that Lewis will join him shortly. He hears Alan's voice before he sees him.

"Dad, remember that you've got the woodlands tour at half ten."

"There's plenty of time yet. And this is important. We're a team, yeah?"

"Aways." The response is automatic.

James pauses long enough to make it seem that he hasn't overheard their conversation. "Alan, thank you for coming." He glances inquiringly at Steven Hawcroft.

"Alan's got something to say. I'm just here to keep the side up." James nods politely, and invites father and son to follow him to Interview 2.

Lewis is already inside, sat behind the table. No trace of the annoyance he must surely feel shows in his face or voice. He waits until James slips into the chair beside him and both Hawcrofts are seated facing them. "Good morning, gentlemen." 

Steven Hawcroft echoes the greeting. Alan seems mute and frozen. His father turns towards him. "You're doing the right thing, Alan. They'll understand. Speak the truth and shame the devil, as your Gran used to say."

"I, erm... what I told you about leaving uni wasn't exactly the way it happened," Alan mutters, eyes fixed on the table. His right hand slides forward, and his thumb strokes a small crack in the wood. Back and forth. Back and forth.

Lewis leans forward. "What did happen, Alan?"

"Dr Hulbert, he... he threatened me," Alan tells the table. "He asked me to stay behind after the tutorial one day. Said he had proof that I'd cheated on an exam." He raises his head and stares defiantly at Lewis. "I never did! I wouldn't!" Beside him, his father scowls, but keeps silent.

"What, exactly, did he accuse you of doing?" James asks, and listens carefully to Alan's long, involved story.

"And then he said that I could either leave the university on my own or get sent down," the young man concludes.

"If you were innocent, why would he accuse you of cheating? Why would he want you gone?" Lewis asks.

"Said that 'my sort' didn't belong at the world's most prestigious university."

"And you didn't think to protest? File a complaint?"

Alan droops his head. "He said, 'Who do you think they'll believe? You or me?'"

James is silent. He can tell that Lewis wonders why he's not pressing Alan more aggressively.

"Sergeant? Any other questions?"

"No sir. I think I've heard all that I need to hear."

As the Hawcrofts rise and prepare to leave, Steven claps his son on the back, then turns to look at Lewis. "Thanks for hearing him out. Dunno if it'll help with your investigation, but I reckon if the bastard did this to Alan, he'll have done it to others. Maybe one of them decided to push back."

Once they're back in the office, Lewis gives him a curious look. "You were very quiet in there."

"He was lying," James says bluntly.

"About what?"

"Everything. It didn't happen— _couldn't_ have happened the way he claimed. The examination process doesn't work like that. If you want the details—"

"I'll take your word for it," Lewis says. "So why did he come here and lie to us? He's got an alibi. He's not a suspect. Unless he knows something about Hulbert's illegal antiquities, and this is meant to distract us."

"And it's such a bad lie." James feels vaguely foolish for the complaint. Usually, he'd be pleased that a witness's lie is easy to detect. "How did he think we'd not see through it?"

"Maybe..." Lewis says slowly, "We're not the ones he was lying to. You heard what his dad said the other day about their family situation, with the mum running off and all. 'We're a team.' I'm thinking that what we heard today is a story Alan invented to keep his dad from knowing the truth—whatever the bloody truth is."

"That makes sense." And James repeats the snippet of conversation he overheard at Reception. "He didn't seem enthusiastic about having his father with him. At the time I didn't think much of it." 

They discuss various possibilities. In the end, Lewis decides they need to give Alan some time. So it's back to endless telephone calls. James decides he needs a smoke break first.

He heads out to the car park, around the corner to a spot which offers the best shelter from the wind and from disapproving looks. It's not uncommon to find one or more of his fellow pariahs there, so he doesn't pay much attention at first to the young man in a grey anorak leaning against the wall. His face is turned away from James. A thin spiral of smoke rises from the cigarette dangling loosely in his right hand.

James curses silently when he discovers the lighter in his pocket is empty. He's got a spare in his desk, but he'd rather not waste the time it would take. "Pardon, have you got a light?"

The man turns. It's Alan Hawcroft. "Huh?" His eyes widen as he recognises James. "What do you want?"

"Have you got a light?" James holds up his cigarette. After Alan holds out his lighter, James nods. "Thanks." He retreats to his previous position, and takes a long drag on the cigarette. He sneaks a glance at Alan. The young man's shoulders are sagging; his gaze fixed on the middle distance.

James remains silent, even as his thoughts are whirling. This is his opportunity. If he can begin a conversation with Alan and steer it in the right direction... He rapidly sifts through the possibilities. The most likely to succeed is his least favourite. He doesn't do this. He doesn't talk about himself, about his past. James bites his lower lip, remembering a particularly blunt lecturer at the Police Training Centre. _'This is not a job for the squeamish, boys and girls.'_ He takes a deep breath. "It's not easy, being in a place where you don't quite fit in."

"What would _you_ know about that?"

"I grew up on a farm," James says, forcing himself to sound casual. No need to mention what sort of farm it was. "I attended the village primary school."

Alan shoots him a sour look. "Pull the other one."

"When I was six or seven, a particularly aggressive Old English Game hen objected to me trying to gather eggs." He holds up his left hand and gestures at the skin between the thumb and index finger. "Bloody Arabella bit me. I've still got the scar," he says, letting a touch of rural Oxfordshire colour his words. _Dad would be appalled._ Philip Hathaway had insisted that his children speak proper English, and not imitate the farm workers and the underservants at the Hall. James had obeyed—mostly. When the village children mocked him for 'talking posh' he learned to alter his vowels and vocabulary just enough to fit in.

"Afterwards, I got a scholarship to one of the top independent schools. Most of my classmates wore Rolex watches and went on ski holidays to St Moritz. I... didn't." He pauses long enough to gauge Alan's reaction. The young man is listening. "I did all right in school. Uni was a very different experience." He's not lying. Even an elite school had not fully prepared him for the academic challenges at Cambridge.

"What are you playing at, trying to sound all sympathetic?" Alan demands. "What's next? Saying that you understand why I'd be tempted to cheat on an exam? Because I fucking well didn't!"

"I know you didn't," James says calmly. "I also know you were lying about Dr Hulbert's accusations." He holds up a hand to forestall any protests. Rapidly, he goes through the explanations he hadn't needed to give to Lewis, listing all of the ways in which Alan's story contradicted the examination procedures.

"You told my dad you didn't go to Oxford!"

"I didn't, but I've been working in this city for a few years now, and I know how the University functions. It isn't that different to how it was done at my uni. Does your father—"

Alan flinches. "You can't tell my dad! You can't—it would kill him if he knew the truth!"

"And what is the truth?" Seeing Alan's hesitation, James adds, "Wasting police time with a false statement is a chargeable offence." It's highly unlikely that CPS would approve a charge in this situation, but Alan doesn't know that. He softens his tone. "You came here to tell the truth. Now is the time to do that."

"You won't believe me."

"I will. I guarantee that whatever it is, I've heard much stranger explanations on this job." _And believing six impossible things before breakfast has become a lifestyle... especially when one of the impossibilities is sitting across the table from me, reminiscing about the time he saw Queen Victoria..._

A long pause. "Can we go inside?"

"Of course." James pulls out his mobile. "Sir? I ran into Alan Hawcroft in the car park. He would like to revise his statement."

* * *

Once again they're in Interview 2. It's the same white walls, the same table and chairs—except that one of the four chairs is empty. Alan is drumming his fingers on the battered tabletop. His face is taut, unsmiling.

Lewis takes the lead. "I understand you'd like to change your previous statement?"

Alan nods stiffly. "What I said before... it wasn't exactly how things happened. It was.. well, it wasn't true." He looks at Lewis, who nods and gestures him to continue. "Uni was brilliant at first. I was learning so much, but then..." He turns towards James. "You were right, about uni being a very different experience to school. There was so much going on at once. I got through Michaelmas term okay. In Hilary, everything changed. I felt like I had twice as much coursework. And I was leading tours on the weekends, and on some weekdays when I didn't have a tutorial. My dad said I didn't have to, but I wanted to help. He's always been there for me. We're a team."

"And then what happened?" Lewis asks.

"One morning I went to Costa and ran into a bloke in my class. He said something about the essay that was due that afternoon." He shuts his eyes for a few seconds. "The essay that I'd completely forgot about. I panicked. I should have gone to Hulbert and asked for an extension, but right then, all I could think about was how disappointed Dad would be. So I went to one of those websites that sells essays and papers, and I bought one. Made a few changes, put my name on it, and handed it in."

James isn't surprised. Those websites make a steady income from lazy or desperate students. Alan is just one of many to take that route. "And Dr Hulbert found out?"

"Yeah." It's almost a whisper. "Asked me to meet him in his office. He said he knew I hadn't written that essay, that plagiarism was a serious disciplinary offence, and he ought to report it."

"You do know that there is an appeal process?"

"I couldn't take the risk that Dad would find out. I begged the old bastard for a second chance—told him I'd never done it before and would never do it again. He said he could overlook it, just the once, if I submitted a proper essay, accepted a reduced mark... and gave him fifty quid."


	6. Cǣġa (Keys)

James manages to keep his face impassive, and his voice calm. "And what did you say after that?"

"I thought at first he was joking," Alan replies. "He wasn't. Told me to think of it as a fine. I didn't have that much money on me, and I was scheduled to guide a tour at half three. I said 'I'll bring it tomorrow'. He said no, it had to be that day or he'd report me. So I ran like Usain Bolt to the nearest cashpoint, ran back to St Anselm's to pay the old fucker, and then ran to the garage just in time to get the minibus. I was pissed off, but I figured it could have been worse."

"Did he ask you for more money?" Lewis asks.

"Not right away. About a month later he wanted another £50. I said I hadn't done anything else wrong, and he said that it would be a good reminder to stay honest." Alan grimaces. "As if he had any right to talk about honesty. He said I could afford it. I could see on his desk, he had the article in the _Mail_ about my dad winning the lottery. He thought we were rich, only most of the money went into setting up the business, and what was left over, Dad spent on my education. I hated leaving university, and I hated lying to my dad, but I didn't have a choice." He takes a deep breath. "In school, we did a unit on historical poems—poems _about_ history, I mean. There was one by Kipling that stuck in my head. 'Dane-Geld.'" He looks questioningly at James.

"I know it. The tenth-century version of the protection racket. Pay us, and we'll stop raiding your coastline." Out of the corner of his eye, James sees Lewis nod. He doesn't know if that means that his governor has read the poem, or heard about the historical events, perhaps from an older Fae who witnessed them.

"Yeah. When he demanded another 'fine', I remembered a line from that poem. 'If once you have paid him the Dane-geld, you never get rid of the Dane.' So I decided I'd rather leave university than pay another penny to the fucking Dane."

* * *

"A blackmailer." Lewis spits the word out, as if he doesn't want the foul taste of it in his mouth any longer than necessary. It's been half an hour since they finished interviewing Alan Hawcroft, and sent him away with reassurances that his father would not be informed. Lewis is still simmering with anger.

"That explains how he financed his treasure trove," James comments. It's certain that Alan Hawcroft was not the first or only victim.

"And why someone would want to kill him," Lewis replies. "It'll be one of his victims—but who? The only one we know of is Alan Hawcroft, and he's got an air-tight alibi."

"Ellen Cydan..."

"Does not exist," Lewis says flatly. "As far as all the records say, there is no one of that name in Britain."

"It could be an alias, or just a nickname he made up for her." He looks again at Hulbert's laptop, which is currently open and switched on. The image of the Sutton Hoo helmet seems to stare back at him from those dark, fathomless eyeholes.

"Could be... so why does it sound so damn familiar? It's driving me spare." It's his turn to stare at the ancient warrior. "The answer's in there—I know it. And the password must be in the old speech." 

_Time for a bit of distraction_. "Did I tell you that the Online Academy will be offering a course in Conversational Old English, starting in January?"

"Planning to enroll, are you?"

"I've given it some thought," James admits. "I don't know if I'd ever be fluent, but I'd like to know a bit more than how to tell an _ash_ from an _eth_ from a _thorn_ ," he says, borrowing Dr Alwin's phrase. He's about to joke about getting private lessons from a native speaker, when he spots his governor's expression. Lewis is frowning, eyes fixed on the middle distance. "Sir?"

Lewis shakes his head. He seems so distant, so lost in thought that James almost jumps when he suddenly speaks. "Hulbert's calendar—the one that was on his desk—where is it?" 

It's locked up in Evidence. Rather than waste time giving instructions to a DC, James goes himself. He opens the box, just to verify that it's the correct item, but resists the temptation to look more closely. He hurries back to the office, and sets the box on Lewis's desk with all the care of a waiter serving very hot soup in an antique porcelain bowl.

Lewis opens the calendar, flipping to the day of the murder. He bends over, squinting at Hulbert's scrawly handwriting. "I'm an idiot." Lewis jabs a finger at the third letter in the second word. "That's not a _d_ , it's a bloody _eth_ ." He adds a few curt words that James suspects will _not_ be taught in Conversational Old English. The Saxons, being a primarily oral culture, left no equivalent to the bawdy Latin graffiti scrawled on the walls of Pompeii. Still, he's fairly sure he can guess what ' _scitte_ ' means.

Peering at the letter in question, James can see that the stem curves more than even a sloppily-written _d_ should, and has a tiny crossbar near the top. "What does it say?"

"El-len CU-thaan," Lewis replies. "It means... showing courage. Or strength. But why did he write it on the calendar?"

"Nickname for his victim?" James suggests. "Password?" He goes to Hulbert's computer, opens the 'Records' folder, clicks on the first file, and types 'ellen cýðan' into the password window. Nothing. He tries typing it as one word, without spaces, and then each word individually. He repeats this process on the second file and the third. "It's not a master password, and I have trouble believing that he used a separate password for each file."

"It's never that easy," Lewis grumbles. "Well, we're further along than we were this morning. I meant to ask how did you coax Alan into coming back to tell us the truth?"

"It was more than half luck." James recounts his conversation in the car park, including his lapse into a half-forgotten accent. "It was the impulse of a moment, not a conscious decision. I saw that he was going to be antagonistic, and would be more cooperative if he knew I could relate to some of his experiences."

"The 'right psychology'?" Lewis asks. There's only a hint of gentle mockery in his tone.

"I suppose. And it's not as though you've never used _your_ childhood accent to sway someone."

"Nothing wrong with following your instincts, canny lad. It's what a good detective does. As for the other, I'll admit I've sometimes turned the Geordie up to eleven when it seemed useful, but that's not my childhood accent. You've not heard my childhood accent."

James protests. "But, I—"

"You've heard me talk a bit in the old speech," Lewis acknowledges. "D'ye think that was how I spoke to my mam when I was a bairn?"

James feels like ten kinds of fool. He's been so fascinated by Lewis's fluency in Old English as spoken by the Fae that he hasn't given much thought to his partner's human mother. A village girl from Northumberland, born during the reign of George III—he's got no idea what her accent sounded like, but it was certainly very different to the English spoken in 1950's Newcastle.

"I'll give you a sample later, if you like," Lewis promises.

They return to the never-ending paperwork. James is writing up a summary of the interview with Alan Hawcroft, from the first few words in the car park through the lengthy and detailed conversation that followed. 

James occasionally glances up from his desk to see Lewis frowning. Some twenty minutes later, Lewis catches him looking and gives a rueful smile. "Can't get it out of my head. Why does _ellen cýðan_ sound familiar?"

It's James's turn to frown. "So it's something more than just knowing what the words mean? You know that phrase from somewhere specific?"

"Maybe? There's just something about it." Lewis lets out an annoyed huff of breath. "Never mind. It's not as though you can remember it for me."

"Hang on. So it's not something you'd use in everyday conversation?" At Lewis's nod, he continues, "Maybe it's part of a poem, or a song or story, just not one of the famous, quotable bits that everyone knows. 'Do you see yonder cloud that's almost in shape of a camel?'" He holds up a hand to forestall an interruption. "It isn't as recognisable as 'to be or not to be', but if you'd seen _Hamlet_ a few times, it might ring a very faint bell."

"And you think _ellen cýðan_ is a cloud in the shape of a camel?" Lewis asks sceptically.

"Something of the sort." James considers the possibilities. It has to be from a surviving work of Old English literature, and one that Robbie would be familiar with. Not one of the lives of the saints, or a Christian poem like _Caedmon's Hymn_ or _The Dream of the Rood_ . Not one of the historical chronicles... "Could it be from _Beowulf_?"

Lewis shrugs. "Could be. I know a few lines, but I haven't got the whole thing memorised. Do you know every line in _Hamlet_? That paperback that was on Hulbert's desk—is it down in Evidence?"

"Yes, but this will be quicker." He opens a search engine on his computer and quickly locates a full-text transcript of _Beowulf_ on a poetry website. A moment later, he exclaims, "Got it!"

Lewis looks over his shoulder. " _Andlongne eorl ellen cýðan_. Right. 'The lord beside him showed courage'. Now we know where it's from, but it doesn't tell us anything, unless our murderer is a lord."

"Let me see if the phrase appears anywhere else." James uses the search function again. "No."

"Maybe we should look at the book, and see if Hulbert wrote any notes in it," Lewis suggests.

For the second time that afternoon, James finds himself trotting down to Evidence. He's back to the office within five minutes. He opens the book, and begins flipping pages. "I don't see any notes or markings. Nothing underlined."

"Find the page that's got _ellen cýðan_ ," Lewis suggests.

James glances at the screen of his computer. "I hadn't noticed. This site doesn't include the—" The next word sticks in his throat. "Oh, God. I'm an idiot." Ignoring Lewis's demand for an explanation, he exits the poetry database, looking for the text of _Beowulf_ on a university website. The University of Toronto is the first one he encounters. He uses the search function again to locate _ellen cýðan_. "Yes! Twenty-six ninety-five!"

"That the winning Lotto number?" Lewis asks drily.

"If I'm right... something even better." James turns to Hulbert's laptop. He opens the folder with the numbered files, and sorts them in numerical order. "Academic editions of literary texts normally have standardised line numbers." He brandishes the paperback book. "That particular phrase is on line number 2695. So we want to find—got it!" He clicks on the link for file 2695, and types ' _ellen cýðan_ ' in the password window. The screen blinks, and then displays a page of single-spaced text.

Lewis whistles softly. "Gotcha!"

* * *

Apprehending the suspect is uneventful. Lenny Jenkinson has the day off from his job as a maintenance worker at St Anselm's. He's at home when Lewis, Hathaway, and two uniformed constables appear at the door of his Crowley flat. He seems almost relieved to be caught, if only so that he can finally vent his anger. Once in Interview 4, James has barely finished reciting the caution when Jenkinson launches into a profane tirade about greed, injustice, and persecution. According to Hulbert's file, Jenkinson was sacked from a previous job at a shopping centre because of inappropriate behaviour with young women. It hadn't reached the level of actionable harassment, but a number of female customers had complained of staring and suggestive remarks. By itself, that might not have been enough for the University to fire him, but his forged letter of recommendation on stolen letterhead would have done.

The murder had been an impulsive act, not pre-meditated. Jenkinson had gone to Hulbert's to deliver his monthly payment, under the cover of replacing the bulb in the wall sconce. Hulbert had taken Jenkinson's money, and then announced that, as of the following month, the price of his silence would be increasing. In a moment of sudden rage, Jenkinson snatched up the letter-opener, and stabbed the 'thieving old tosser'.

Innocent is pleased. A case solved promptly and discreetly, with no facetious antics causing complaints. "Very good outcome," she tells them. "Sergeant Hathaway, I understand that a large part of the credit is owed to you."

"It really was a joint effort, ma'am," James says. He can't tell the whole truth about Lewis's contribution, but he'll share what he can. "It was Inspector Lewis who noticed that what I'd assumed to be a lower-case 'd' was something else entirely. And he suggested that the password phrase might be from _Beowulf_ , because of the book on the desk. I just followed up from there."

"While you have learned a great deal in your partnership with Inspector Lewis— _most_ of it commendable—apparently he hasn't instructed you in how to respond to a compliment from a superior officer." The slight hint of a smile softens the rebuke.

James reddens. "Sorry, ma'am—I mean, thank you, ma'am."

Mercifully, they're soon dismissed. The rest of the day is occupied with reports and paperwork to be sent on to CPS. As they're heading out the door, Robbie turns to him. "Come back to mine tomorrow? Around noon?"

Tomorrow is Saturday, and they're off the rota for the weekend. James, understanding the meaning of the invitation, finds himself suddenly tongue-tied. He nods. "Should I bring anything?"

Robbie shrugs. "Clean underwear, a toothbrush, and your guitar, if you like. Oh, and a bottle of red wine."

"Red wine?" Robbie will drink wine when it's offered, but doesn't usually request it. 

It's Robbie's turn to sound puzzled. "Red goes with beef, yeah? I thought we'd grill some steaks, have a nice dinner."

"That suits me. Good night, Robbie." On the drive home, he mentally catalogues some suitable reds. There's a Tuscan Merlot he likes, and an Australian Shiraz. Or maybe one of the South African Cabernet Sauvignons... 

He's still pondering wine choices over his solitary dinner of takeaway kung pao chicken when it finally sinks in how foolish he's being. He's got a decent palate, but he's no connoisseur. Robbie will drink anything that's a step above Chateau Thames Embankment. And it's not as though this is a special occasion.

_Isn't it, though?_

_We've already had the bonding. This is just a belated exchange of gifts._

Gifts. He'd been in a quandary about a gift for Robbie. The other man had been adamant that the declaration of love that James wrote in Latin on a scrap of birch bark was enough. _"I don't need_ things _, James."_ And that's all very well, but tomorrow, Robbie is going to reach into the leather satchel he brought back from Underhill, and give a bonding gift to James. He's got no idea what it will be. Certainly Fae-crafted and beautiful; possibly ancient and priceless. And James will be empty-handed.

He's thought about performing the song he composed for Robbie. That could either be a welcome surprise—or a complete disaster. James knows that he's a skilled guitarist. He's been playing since he was 13. But while he's dabbled in composing for his own amusement, he's never written anything this complex before, and he can't judge the quality of his own work. He'd rather arrive with empty hands than present a flawed gift. 

Is there an alternative? He'd hoped to do some shopping upon their return to Oxford, but this case has taken up most of his time and mental energy. It's been fascinating, though, to see Lewis combine the previously separate parts of his life to solve this case. If someone had told him a year ago that they'd catch a murderer because of his governor's familiarity with Beowulf... _Oh. Oh!_ Food forgotten, James's chopsticks hover aimlessly over his plate as he considers the new possibility. Perhaps he won't have to go to Robbie's empty-handed after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alan quotes from Rudyard Kipling's poem [Danegeld](https://www.poetryloverspage.com/poets/kipling/dane_geld.html).


	7. Wynsuma Ġiefa (Pleasing Gifts)

Saturday morning, James awakens early. After coffee, he goes for a run. A shower and a second cup of coffee complete the waking up process. He sips slowly. The shops won't open for another hour. 

Luck is with him. The first shop he visits has the item he wants. He goes into a nearby off-licence and buys two bottles of the Australian Shiraz, then heads home. He has got a specific idea of how to present his gift, and that requires some preparation. When that's worked out to his satisfaction, it's time to drive over to Robbie's.

His partner greets him with a smile. James is relieved to see that they had similar notions about appropriate dress: what he'd call 'smart casual'. He's got on a pair of black jeans and a deep blue shirt, open at the collar. Robbie is in khaki trousers and a pale green shirt. "Hello, love. You can put your stuff in there." He points towards the main bedroom. James knows the layout of the house from many past visits, but he's always slept in the guest room.

"What now?" James asks.

Robbie smiles. "Wu’ll hev wor bait, brautins, an batten worsels," he says matter-of-factly.

James stares at him. That wasn't the Old Speech. The accent sounds something like Scots English, but he doesn't recognise a single word of it. "Pardon?"

Robbie repeats the sentence, laughs. "I told you that you'd never heard my childhood accent."

Oh. So, _that's_ what early nineteenth century Northumbrian sounds like. "Translation, please?"

"We'll have our lunch, and stuff ourselves with cheese toasties." He frowns. "Cheese toasties isn't quite right. Brautins are made with girdle cakes, not bread. Hot out of the frying pan, and split in half. I haven't had any for yonks," he says wistfully. "Must be about a century."

From anyone else, James would take that as hyperbole. Robbie probably does mean he hasn't had that childhood treat since before the First World War. "We'll have to ask Cousin Maggie for a recipe." The hill-kin woman is a talented home baker. She's likely to know how to make traditional Northumbrian girdle cakes. "In the meanwhile, shall I make us some cheese toasties?"

Within half an hour, they're stuffing themselves with a twenty-first century meal of ham and cheese toasties on sourdough bread, freshly-picked tomatoes, and a couple of bottles of Newcastle Brown. It's a relaxing meal, with easily flowing conversation.

Afterwards, Robbie insists on doing the washing up, since James prepared the toasties. James doesn't protest, because it gives him a chance to get his gift set up in the lounge. He returns to the kitchen just as Robbie is putting away the last of the clean dishes.

"Right. There's that done. Come into the sunroom, _efning_?"

James follows him into the sunroom. It's a bright, inviting space overlooking the back garden, and one of the main reasons Robbie bought this particular house. The sunroom was added on by the previous owners, who took care to match the colours and designs of the slate roof and the timber frames of the floor-to-ceiling windows to the existing structure. It's smaller than the lounge, but there's room enough for the essentials. The second-hand rattan sofa and the matching armchair have been painted brown, and given new, overstuffed cushions, covered in dark green canvas. A small cafe table with two chairs is tucked in the far corner.

Robbie lifts a familiar-looking leather bag from the floor on the far side of the sofa. "The king and queen said I should open this when I was seated in my own place of power. Since it's a bit cold in the garden, I reckon this will do."

James seats himself beside Robbie on the sofa. "I think so. And you've brought enough of the garden in here." That's an understatement. The sunroom is crowded with potted plants of all kinds, including a tomato plant with several red-ripe fruits hanging from it. The source of their lunch ingredient, no doubt. Why go to Tesco to buy flavourless tomatoes shipped from Spain or Israel when you can coax your own tomato plant to bear out of season?

There's a sturdy oak bench in front of the sofa, which serves as a coffee table. Robbie begins to pull items out of the bag. Most are small; all are wrapped in fine linen. James can't tell from the shapes what any of them are. The wrappings by themselves are stunning works of art, woven in delicate patterns, highlighted by fine threads of gold. _I'll bet that Dr Alwin_ _would sell his soul to see these_.

Robbie hesitates, then reaches for one of the bundles. "This is for both of us, actually." He unfolds the linen gently to reveal two matching glass goblets. "Granddad gave these to my parents after I was born, for my naming celebration."

"How old are they?" The footed cups have an iridescent patina that reminds James of ancient Egyptian glassware he's seen in museums. And the faintly etched lines evoke the petals of a lotus.

"Dunno. Grandad said they'd been in the family a good long while. We'll use them tonight, yeah?"

James can't find the words. Does Robbie actually expect them to drink moderately-priced Australian Shiraz out of exquisite wine glasses that were probably made a millennium before the birth of Christ?

Apparently so. Robbie continues, "Pretty things are meant to be taken out and used. Val had a Royal Albert tea set that belonged to her Gran. All over pink roses. She used it for birthdays and Christmas, and sometimes just because she felt like it. I gave it to our Lyn, told her to do the same."

James smiles. That's outside his experience. There was nothing of the sort in his childhood. He doubts that his working-class grandparents passed anything down to their children, except a strong distaste for poverty. He has some possessions that were gifts from his parents when he was young, but nothing that could be considered a family heirloom. He struggles to find his voice. "They're spectacular. Thank you." He expects Robbie to return the rest of the items to the satchel, but he reaches for another, large item. Perhaps he wants to show off some of the other treasures he brought back from Underhill.

"Bugger. That's the wrong one," Robbie mutters.

"Is that a crown?" James stares at the gold circlet set with cabochon emeralds.

It's a rhetorical question, but Robbie seems to be pondering an answer. Eventually he says, "I think you'd call it a coronet. Not likely I'll have any use for it, unless there was a ceremony, or I had to go to court."

After a few long seconds, James realises that Robbie means the royal court of Underhill. He pauses to imagine DI Lewis, in the witness box, wearing his best suit and tie, and a glittering gold coronet. _Well, it_ is _called_ _Crown Court._ He smiles to himself at the absurd image.

"What's so funny?"

"Erm, nothing," James says hastily. "But I'd like to see you wearing it."

"All right," Robbie replies. "I'll wear it if you like, but only if you wear yours."

"My—I don't—why would _I_ have a coronet?"

"Sorry, _efning_ ," Robbie says cheerfully. "It's part of the package. One of the many inconvenient results of binding yourself to me. The good news is, I doubt you'll ever need to wear the bloody thing." He hunts through the array of linen-wrapped items, and selects one similar in size and shape. "There you are."

The other circlet is very like Robbie's, except that it's silver and the stones are sapphires. James reaches out hesitantly, and lightly strokes one finger across the filigree-work along the upper edge. It doesn't seem possible that this is meant for him. “More family heirlooms?”

“Might be. I don't know when these were last worn, or what kindred they belonged to. Before the coronation, I took Lucanus and Merewyn into the _goldhord_ to choose their crowns." The _goldhord_ , Robbie explained, was the royal treasury of Underhill, where the regalia of the kingdom was stored, rather like the Jewel House at the Tower of London. "After they made their choices, they told me to select a... a princely coronet for myself. And Merewyn said I should choose another for my shoulder-companion."

"Why? We weren't bonded yet," James protests. 'Shoulder-companion' is a term for a close friend, not a consort.

"They knew I was hoping to ask you. And Merewyn has the Sight. I don't know if she foresaw the bond, or if she was just being an optimistic romantic. So, here it is. And that's two. We do three gifts for special occasions," Robbie explains.

James nods, feeling almost numb. He's glad that he ignored Robbie and brought at least one small gift for him, even if it can't match the splendor of the treasures James has received. What will the next gift be? He blinks as something small is placed before him, a little wider than his thumb, and one and a half times as long. Carefully, he unfolds the linen.

It's a black leather sheath. Inside is a pocket knife—no, a pocket multi-tool, judging from the metal shapes he can see along the edges. The outside casing is cloisonné, pale green enamel inset with hair-thin silver wires in a wavy pattern. James turns the multi-tool over. The other side of the casing has the same cloisonné design, with a silver oval in the centre, enclosing two elegantly-scripted silver letters.

All at once, James realises that the colour of the enamel is actually Cambridge Blue, and the silver letters are his initials. He turns to stare at Robbie. “That didn’t come from the _goldhord_.”

"No, I had it commissioned. Took a while to get Leofhelm to agree to do it." Robbie correctly interprets James's raised brows. "Yeah, I was the king, but... let's just say that you haven't met a real prima donna until you've met a Fae master-artisan. Before he took on the job, he wanted to know all about you. I think what finally convinced him was when I told him you were a musician."

"It's beautiful. Thank you." James begins to explore the attachments on the multitool.

"Be careful with the knife," Robbie warns. "It's sharp. Cut-your-finger-off sharp."

As James carefully opens the knife, he notices a tiny glyph etched into the base of the blade. The maker's mark, he assumes. And the knife looks to be just under three-inches. "Legal blade length, I see."

"Yeah. I insisted on that. When I explained why, Leofhelm had a few choice words to say."

"Lord, what fools these mortals be?" James suggests.

Robbie laughs. "Nothing that polite. Any road, he crafted it to spec." He begins to return the rest of the wrapped bundles to the bag. "And that's three. We've time yet before I need to think about preparing for dinner, so—"

"So, it's my turn now," James interrupts smoothly. "I've got a gift for you."

" _Efning_ , you didn't have to do that," Robbie protests.

"Yes, I did, _efning_ ," James replies, with heavy emphasis on the last word. "You told me that a consort-bond is one of equals. So, as your consort and your equal, I'm telling you to shut up and accept the fucking gift."

Robbie's expression is an intriguing mixture of shock, amusement, and something James can't quite identify. "Well, there's me put in my proper place." He smiles, and the third emotion becomes clear: pride.

"We need to go into the lounge. It's not something I can bring out here."

Once settled on the sofa, James grabs the remote. As soon as the TV turns on, he presses 'play'.

A man in dark clothing appears on the screen. He's playing a small, rectangular harp with six strings, tuned in a mode James doesn't recognise. The melody is simple and haunting. Suddenly, the man begins to sing in a clear baritone. " _Nó ic mé an herewæsmun, hnágran talige, gúþgeweorca, þonne Grendel hine_." The modern English subtitles are turned off, but James has previewed this scene, and knows what's happening. At night in the mead-hall, Beowulf awaits the coming fight with the monster, Grendel. The performer switches to recitation; his voice leaps from low and somber to loud and fierce.

James glances surreptitiously at Robbie. His eyes are fixed on the screen, and occasionally he echoes the performer's words under his breath. Twelve minutes later, the scene ends with the death of Grendel, and James presses 'pause'. "Well?"

Robbie's eyes are wide with delight. "That is bloody marvelous! But... how?"

"Benjamin Bagby teaches medieval music at the Sorbonne. He's been doing live performances of _Beowulf_ for about twenty years. This is a recording of one he did in Sweden. I bought it at Blackwell's this morning." He pauses. "I know it's not quite the same as a Fae scop..."

Robbie shakes his head. "He's very good. The accent is different to what I'm used to, but that's no matter. I remember the first time I was allowed to stay in the _Cyning-Halla_ after a feast and listen to the scops singing and telling tales. Athelric, the eldest scop, recited from Beowulf—not this bit, the fight with Grendel's mum." He smiles the nostalgic smile of an adult recalling his long-ago first Christmas panto.

"We can watch more," James suggests.

"Not now. It's wonderful, and I can't thank you enough, _efning_. Sometime soon I want to watch the whole thing, but there's something special about a live performance. And since I have my very own scop right here..."

James fetches his guitar and settles back on the sofa. "What do you want to hear?"

Robbie shrugs. "Whatever you please."

He idly plucks a few random chords, trying to decide what to play. One of Robbie's favourite 70s ballads? And then his fingers begin to pick out the melody that's been occupying his mind for a few weeks now. _I'm not ready!_ he protests, but some other feeling, stronger than the fear, takes over.

The tune has no title. He just thinks of it as 'Robbie's Song'. It's purely instrumental, with a lot of intricate finger-picking. The first section is 'Oxford'. A lively melody sketches busy city streets and pavements. There's a gentle flowing passage for the rivers, and a rough approximation of the ringing pattern called Plain Bob Minor for the bells of Oxford. It ends with wind in the trees: first whispering a soft lament for a murdered child, and then increasing in speed and fury to a magical whirlwind.

The second part is 'Waiting'. He infuses his playing with remembered loneliness, and longing, and hope. A wind blows across a Northumberland hillside, and a solitary bird calls in the distance. _Will he? Will he?_

The final section is 'Magic'. It begins with some of the earlier motifs evoking the Northumbrian landscape: hills and valleys, holy shrines and ancient ruins, the lowing of cows and the clop of horses' hooves. Then he introduces a seven-note melody which represents the magic of the Fae. He plays it slowly and gently for the healing of a potted orchid; eerily, with faint echoes, for the dark tunnel that is the Gate of the Vale; and with loud, assertive chords for the raising up of giant boulders to seal off the Vale at the Heart of the Hills. 

Not until the final chord fades into silence does he dare look up. Robbie is silent, and seems lost in thought. Is he bored? Distracted? Or just trying to find something kind to say about James's overambitious performance? "I'd swear I haven't heard you play that before, but it seems familiar... is that something for your band?" he says hesitantly.

"No. I wrote it." James inhales deeply. "For you."

"You _wrote_ that?" Robbie gawks at him as though James is the magical one and has worked some kind of marvel. A moment later, his brain catches up with his ears, and he adds, "You wrote that for _me_?"

James nods. "As a gift. I wasn't quite sure it was ready." _Or good enough_ , an inner voice corrects. "So I got you the other."

Robbie waves a hand at the telly. "That was a wonderful surprise, but this... this is fantastic."

"It's just a song."

"It's lovely," Robbie counters.

"But you gave me... treasures." Both ancient and new, and all finely crafted.

"I could give you half of the _goldhord_ , and it wouldn't equal this. Everything I gave you was created by others, but you created something for me. That means a lot."

"I didn't know about the three-gift custom. I suppose this makes two. You'll have to wait for the third. And don't tell me that it isn't necessary, _efning_ ," James says with a mock frown.

Robbie holds his hands out, palms forward, in a placating gesture. "I wouldn't dare," he says, smiling. "And I'll be pleased with whatever you choose. But, if I may make a suggestion?"

"Yes?"

The smile deepens. "There's always what we started the bond with..."

James frowns, and then the penny drops. "Gifts of the body". He smiles in return. "I imagine that could be arranged. Shall we go into the bedroom and discuss it?"

The 'discussion' is very educational. Robbie learns that James's creativity is not limited to music. James adds to his vocabulary of 'words that will not be taught in Conversational Old English'. These include nouns (body parts), verbs (actions involving body parts), and interjections (exclamations of strong emotions). When the lesson is over, they are both too tired to mess about with the back-garden grill. 

" _Tómorgen_ ," Robbie says firmly. "We'll cook the steaks tomorrow. What do you fancy tonight?"

At dinner, James learns that moderately-priced Australian Shiraz tastes fantastic when drunk from millenia-old wine cups, and that it also pairs very well with pizza margherita.

The final lesson of the night happens shortly after they go to bed. James burrows under the moss-green duvet, basking in the warmth of Robbie's body. His lover's right arm curls around his back and pulls him closer—close enough that James can feel the evidence of Robbie's desire. James whispers, "How do you say 'I want you'?"

Robbie murmurs the phrase in Old English. James repeats it, and then proceeds to demonstrate how well he's learned this particular lesson.

— The End —

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And... here we are, at the end. Thank you for joining me on this journey. There will be others. I have started on a sequel, and have Thoughts about future tales, but I make no promises about when.
> 
> Robbie's childhood speech was shameless stolen (and slightly adapted) from [The Northumbrian Language Society](http://www.northumbriana.org.uk/langsoc/).
> 
> Benjamin Bagby's performance of Beowulf is as described. The DVD is available for sale through the usual suspects. Close-captioning is available for those who are not fluent in the Old Speech. You can watch excerpts on his [website](https://www.bagbybeowulf.com/), and find others on YouTube.


End file.
